The First King
The figure stepped closer.
The trees seemed to lean away from it, their branches curling back, their roots retreating into the earth. The darkness around it was thicker, older, hungrier. The light from its eyes cast strange shadows on the forest floor — shadows that looked like crowns, like swords, like the faces of dead men.
Rhaena’s horse trembled beneath her, but she held the reins steady. She would not run. She had spent twenty years running. If this thing wanted her, it would have to take her while she stood still.
“You are the first king,” she said.
The figure tilted its head.
“I am the first. The one who built this kingdom. The one who forged this throne. The one who planted this forest to guard my bones.”
“Your bones?”
“My bones. My body. My memory. The old kings are buried here, beneath the roots, beneath the stones, beneath the silence. We have been waiting for you.”
“Waiting for what?”
The figure stepped closer.
“For the heir. For the hope. For the one who will break the throne.”
Corin raised his sword.
“Stay back.”
The figure did not look at him.
“You cannot hurt me with that. I am not alive. I am not dead. I am between.”
“Then what are you?”
The figure looked at Rhaena.
“I am a memory. A warning. A promise. The first king built this kingdom on blood and bone. He knew that one day, the throne would need to be broken. He knew that one day, the heir would need to return. He knew that one day, the Withering would wake.”
“How did he know?”
The figure’s silver eyes dimmed.
“Because he was the first to feel it. The hunger beneath the earth. The thirst beneath the stone. The cold beneath the warmth. He felt it as he laid the first stone. He felt it as he forged the first crown. He felt it as he spoke the first law.”
“What did he do?”
“He built this forest. He planted the trees to contain the hunger. He buried himself beneath the roots to hold the hunger back. He gave his life to buy the kingdom time.”
“Time for what?”
The figure looked at her.
“Time for you.”
Theron’s horse had stopped trembling.
His good eye was fixed on the figure.
“You are the ghost they speak of. The one who walks the forest at dawn.”
“I am the first. I am the last. I am the only.”
“Why have you not spoken to anyone before?”
The figure’s silver eyes flickered.
“I have spoken. Thousands of times. No one has listened. No one has understood. No one has remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
“The throne is not a seat of power. It is a cage. A cage for the hunger. A cage for the thirst. A cage for the Withering.”
Rhaena dismounted.
Her boots sank into the soft earth.
“Your Grace—” Corin began.
She raised her hand.
He fell silent.
She walked toward the figure.
The darkness pressed against her, cold and heavy, but she did not stop.
She stopped a few feet away.
“The throne is a cage,” she said.
“The throne is a cage.”
“How do we break it?”
The figure reached out.
Its hand was made of shadow and moss and memory.
“You must sit on it. You must claim it. You must become it.”
“That does not break it. That feeds it.”
“No. It changes it. The throne is not evil. The throne is not good. The throne is. It simply is. It has always been. It will always be. The hunger is not in the throne. The hunger is in the one who sits on it.”
Rhaena looked at the figure’s hand.
“Do you want me to take your hand?”
“I want you to take the throne.”
“I cannot take the throne alone.”
“You will not be alone. The people will be with you. The memory will be with you. The hope will be with you.”
“What about you?”
The figure’s silver eyes brightened.
“I will be with you too. In the roots of this forest. In the stones of the castle. In the blood of your blood.”
Rhaena reached out.
She took the figure’s hand.
The shadow was cold.
The moss was soft.
The memory was warm.
“I will break the throne,” she said.
“I know.”
“I will stop the Withering.”
“I know.”
“I will save the kingdom.”
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
The figure smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
It was the smile of a man who had seen a thousand years pass and knew that a thousand more would pass the same way.
“Because you are my blood. Because you are my hope. Because you are my heir.”
The figure released her hand.
The darkness receded.
The trees straightened.
The light returned.
The figure was gone.
Rhaena stood alone in the forest, her hand still extended, her fingers still tingling with cold.
Corin dismounted.
“Your Grace?”
She turned.
Her eyes were silver.
Not gray. Not brown. Silver.
“I am ready,” she said.